


Blood of My Blood

by Blood_Stained_Fingers



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020), Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood Drinking, Episode: S01E01 The Rules of the Beast, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22312894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blood_Stained_Fingers/pseuds/Blood_Stained_Fingers
Summary: “I think he’s made you his friend.”What if the Count had made Jonathan his friend? The Count has an appetite for science, and what harm can a little experiment do?An AU and a retelling of Jonathan's stay at Castle Dracula.
Relationships: Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Comments: 16
Kudos: 345





	Blood of My Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Urgh, I thought I wasn’t going to write another fic for Dracula, but this happened.
> 
> This is probably riddled with errors, but I can’t work on it anymore - it has gotten completely out of hand. This hasn’t been beta-read, only I have checked it, and I have barely slept the past few days writing it – please let me know if there are any glaring errors.
> 
> Some lines are verbatim from the show, others have been moved around and there are some elements from the novel in here too.
> 
> If a scene isn’t included, consider it to be as it was in the show.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it – I personally think it tends to get better towards the very end!

It was an awkward dinner, once again. They sat in silence for the most part these days.

The Count had beyond improved his English at this point, knowing all the quirks and eccentricities of the language that Jonathan did, rendering Jonathan a rather useless instrument.

Jonathan’s own energy levels were very depleted, and though the Count seemed much the person to entertain any topic of conversation, Jonathan lacked the energy to even find a subject. Especially, when what little of his energy had to be put into chewing through the tough, almost raw game that the Count always served.

It was even more awkward now that Jonathan had suspicions about his employer. The man had shed nearly half a century in age in the past couple of weeks. The castle itself seemed to hold unnatural secrets. Though Jonathan was a rational man, and raised to not believe in superstitious nonsense, he couldn’t help the deep-seated fear that had begun to reside in him.

The most worrying of these events was that Jonathan knew there was at least one other in the castle, other than himself. A woman who wanted help, but he couldn’t find her to offer that help. She had hung herself out of a window to scratch that message with her nails into his window, and he couldn’t even find his way around the castle. The prison without locks, indeed.

“Count Dracula?” he asked, working up his nerve by fighting to swallow back the tough meat. “Are we alone in this castle?” he asked.

The man didn’t even pretend to be interested in the conversation this time, slowing drawing his eyes up from his papers on Carfax Abbey. The Count could talk about any topic, but his eyes never reflected his tone, a little fact that Jonathan had filed away from the first moment he met the man. He could carry any conversation topic and carry it well - the gift of a true aristocrat – but his eyes were never interested. Blank slates that were only semi-disguised by a bland smile.

“Yes, except for the servants, of course,” The Count responded, eyes already drifting back to his paperwork.

Jonathan steadied his nerve, “I never see any servants.”

Dracula sighed, looking back at Jonathan again. “They aren’t here at night,” he said, as though explaining to a simpleton.

“I don’t see them in the daytime either,” Jonathan rebuffed, ignoring the Count’s tone. “In fact, apart from the driver, I haven’t seen anyone working here at all.”

The Count chuckled, it was a mean laugh and quite unlike the others Jonathan had heard from the man, “Ahh yes, the driver,” was all he murmured.

Jonathan felt his frustration building. He clenched his cutlery with hands so tight his knucklebones stood out, “What I am asking is, aside from yourself, is there anyone else living in this castle?”

The Count set down his papers finally, looking at Jonathan in a kind of bored exasperation, before he stated quite firmly, “No, Jonathan, there is no one _living_ here.”

The conversation ended on a bitter note.

Jonathan picked up his wine, chewing back any further questions in frustration. The silence endured for an uncomfortable few minutes.

“Let me get you another drink, Jonathan,” The Count suddenly said, standing.

Jonathan blinked, startled by the sudden change in what he had thought to be a finished conversation. The man smiled at him, blandly amused, “The bottle of wine is empty,” he explained, gesturing to where it sat next to Jonathan.

Jonathan looked to his left and saw to his own horror that he had indeed drunk a whole bottle of wine by himself, “Oh no, Count Dracula, I couldn’t take anymore.” He found himself aghast at having consumed an entire bottle of what must have been expensive wine. He may be ill, but it was no excuse - especially as this was his employer. “I apologise for drinking so much!”

“No, no, my friend,” The Count assured, “It is my pleasure to ensure that you enjoy my hospitality.” The man melded into the shadows as he left the dining room almost silently. A cold ball of lead settled in Jonathan’s stomach. There was something barbed in there, a well-hidden malicious jab. Jonathan didn’t know what the Count was planning, but it felt like the man was going to do something.

Jonathan’s addled mind struggled to find the intention in his actions, unable to piece together what a Count might to do get back at an employee who he felt had spoken out of turn. He had an idea what a member of the ruling class from four hundred years ago might do, due to horrific stories from the region ( _flaying, impaling, lashings)_. He knew what some of the English working class might do ( _spit in his drink)_ , but here and now… He tried to think of what the Count might do - even here they had discarded the old punishments of the dark ages - and surely not something as uncouth as spitting in the drink?

Another glass of red wine materialised in front of him, and Jonathan startled, having not heard nor seen the Count’s return. He struggled to focus on the glass for a moment, reaching out belatedly for it and oddly conscious of the Count seeing his fingernail-less fingers.

But the Count paid them no mind, smiling that little smile again that sent alarm bells ringing in Jonathan’s head. “Just one of these, my friend. This is a very expensive wine, but for you, who has done so much for me. I thought a glass would be perfect for this occasion.”

Jonathan felt a rush of shame fall over him, how could he have been so rude to the Count? Although he still had all his suspicions and a well of fear sloshing around in his stomach, the Count was still his employer and Jonathan shouldn’t have been so rude to him.

 _If only for his own safety,_ a little sliver of cunning whispered to him. The legal side of his brain firing frantically, as Jonathan brought the glass closer to his lips.

“Thank you, then. Very much,” Jonathan stated, feeling a weak flush in his cheeks at his tongue-tied speech.

The Count smiled laughingly, “Is this another of your English… _quirks_ you have told me about?” Jonathan knew the man knew that it wasn’t. He tried to not let any uncharitable thoughts show on his face.

“No, no. I’m just very tired, Count,” he offered instead. “I’ve not felt very well these past few days.”

“Then you must rest! Finish your dinner and adjourn to bed!” The Count smiled down at him, “Drink up! Drink up! I have already let the wine breathe enough. You must try it!” The Count insisted, and for the first time Jonathan noted how…engaged he truly looked.

Jonathan’s own smile was fake, but he felt it become exceptionally fixed as the unnerving feeling rose within him. He felt a cold sweat break out across his skin.

The Count had done something to the drink. There was no doubt, but how could Jonathan refuse it?

The man wouldn’t have poisoned it, would he?

Jonathan couldn’t pause for any longer without making it too obvious what he was doing, so he took a smaller perfunctory sip of the wine.

…It tasted perfectly fine. Not particularly nice, but not awful either. But Jonathan knew there were poisons that were undetectable to the taste buds…strychnine came to mind.

But what could he do? He was bound by politeness. He took another sip under the Count’s watchful gaze. The wine was a little thicker than the previous bottle and seemed to coat Jonathan’s mouth quite thickly. Jonathan licked his lips. There was almost a …metallic aftertaste to it.

A change in consistency and texture could indicate poisoning, but it could indicate other things too.

Jonathan wondered just how old the wine was. He got the impression it could be an inherited bottle. Didn’t wine go off after several years?

Would that be the Count’s revenge? Let the common-born man make gushing noises over a spoiled bottle of wine, like an uneducated serf? It seemed petty. But safe.

And Jonathan needed safe right now.

“I’m no wine expert, Count, but it is lovely. Thank you.”

The Count smiled, and for the first time since Jonathan came to stay…looked at him with genuine interest.

***

The next morning, Jonathan had intended to carry on his search of the castle, but his head rang and pounded with a fierce headache. He had had a lot of wine the previous night which he decided adequately explained his sore head, pulsating with each beat of his heart. He also felt with some relief, that although he was not well, he was not any worse than he had been before. Whatever the Count had done, it didn’t seem to be poison.

 _Or at least, a fast acting one._ Jonathan laughed a little hysterically at his own paranoia. He needed to get back to civilisation. Being trapped here with only the Count and his other prisoner was not doing his sanity any good.

Jonathan noted, with no small amount of relief, that he didn’t feel any more tired than the night before. It felt like somewhat an improvement, as his condition had been worsening night by night previously.

Upon looking at his watch, he was shocked to realise that it was nearing three in the afternoon. The sun was already beginning to set, streaming in his window unforgivingly as it lowered itself closer to the Carpathian Mountains. He drew the drapes with disgusted sigh, surprising himself with his own vitriol towards it.

Jonathan sat for a while in his nightclothes, unable to summon the energy to get dressed and thought about whether to attempt a search that day. The sun would have fully set soon, and although the Count was engaged all day – doing Lord knows what - he tended to be around by five, even if dinner wasn’t served until seven.

Jonathan groaned, rubbing his forehead. He had wasted a day, and valuable daylight. The castle was dark and cramped in the day, and completely impossible at night. The Count often escorted Jonathan back to his rooms after dinner, and Jonathan genuinely found himself struggling to remember where the rooms were directed when all he could see was the small flickering candle striking against the Count’s imposing form.

He resolved to get dressed, and write matters in his journal, feeling that an account of his time at Castle Dracula may be a better way to spend what little of the day he had left.

As he got dressed, he realised he felt more vibrant in some ways, the actions of tying his tie not quite so exhausting as it had been the day before. But with the burst of energy came aches. His muscles burned as though they had atrophied somewhat in his illness. His fingertips, though mostly missing their nails, were burning fiercely. He couldn’t stand to touch them, even though the pressure stemming from his nailbeds made him want to bite at them. He flexed his fingers, stretching them out in an attempt to soothe them.

It didn’t work.

There was also a black mood hanging over him. Jonathan had never been one for being angry, he was considered to be very mild mannered by everyone who knew him, and it was rather hard to offend him. However, he could feel something broiling, to the point when his pen blotted messily in his journal due to his sore hands, he had to fight the urge to try to snap it; a sensation so foreign it jarred him out of his temper.

The suddenness of the anger depleted as the spilt ink stung his raw fingertips, and the exhaustion that had plagued him seemed to come upon him again through the exertion of his temper. Jonathan frowned down at his blotchy journal entry, stunned.

He set the pen down and didn’t pick it up again.

When it came to dinner that night, the Count welcomed him with more friendliness than he had even shown on Jonathan’s first night at the castle. And seeing the Count so pleased and interested, surprisingly sent a little burst of happiness within Jonathan. He felt a sudden warmth towards the Count, the black mood that had plagued him most of the afternoon almost evaporating.

The meal was much the same in consistency as the previous nights, but when Jonathan looked at the bloody meat that evening, he felt suddenly hungry. The meat had always been too much, too tough, too rare for his tastes, but he found himself eating it with an unknown delight. It was still not really to Jonathan’s tastes, but it was much easier and tastier than Jonathan was expecting.

The Count chatted amicably to him about England during his dinner, watching Jonathan eat with an appalling lack of manners for the Englishman. Jonathan found himself shocked at his own conduct during the meal, though not grotesque or without politeness, there was a hunger there and lack of restraint which he couldn’t help.

Jonathan wondered if the strange illness he had had since coming to the country had passed, leaving his body starving. He tried to slow down his eating to appear less like a ravenous animal. His employers would be aghast by Jonathan’s behaviour if Count Dracula was to remark upon it.

The Count insisted on serving his rare wine again, seeing as Jonathan was in improved heath and spirit. Jonathan remembered his fears from the last night, but he was well. Better than he had felt for sometime even, and decided there was nothing wrong with having some more wine. Whatever the count had done hadn’t had any lasting effects, and clearly the insult from the previous night had been forgotten about.

Upon tasting the wine, found it slipped down his throat much easier than the night before. It was still very unusual, but not unpleasant tonight. The extra time to breathe must have done the bottle some good, he thought.

He drunk it quickly.

This continued for three nights, and in that time, Jonathan felt somewhat lulled into a false sense of security. The food and wine only got better each night, his energy levels recouped and though his muscles and fingers ached, it had become a tolerable pain and much more preferable than the exhausted and drained feeling he had become accustomed to.

The Count and him spent many hours conversing, and though the Count had miraculously regained his youth for a while, he didn’t seem to become any younger in those days. In fact, by the third night, Jonathan noted he looked rather tired, and greyer around the temples again. When Jonathan enquired about the Count’s health, feeling an unusual amount of concern for the man, he was waved off with a congenial hand.

It was on that third night, Jonathan had a nightmare. He was being held down, a heavy weight pressing down on him, crushing him. There was a pain in his neck, a sharp, stabbing pain. He snarled like a wild animal, trying to buck the presence off him. There was gentle laughter, “Settle, Johnny. Settle.” Soothing hands across his brow, his cheeks, shushing him. He found himself pliant under those hands.

He dreamt of great wars and blood. Killing men, women and children. Burning a church. Impaling an entire army. Women, lots of bloody women. Lots of bloody men. In pain. In boxes. Children being given to them. Dead children…The woman. The one who had asked him for help. She was begging him, pleading with him to not hurt her. He did anyway, lunging for her throat…

Jonathan awoke with a ragged gasp, his own throat burning as he attempted to get out of bed in a panic. His weak legs got tangled in the bedsheets, and he collapsed to the floor heaving up his dinner. A thick metallic bile stuck to his lips as he wretched, thick chunks of undigested meat splattering the rug.

To his horror, he could detect blood in the vomit, thick and clotting. For a moment, Jonathan’s brain went into over-drive. _I’ve got tuberculosis! I’ve got tuberculosis!_ but then he managed to calm down. He hadn’t been coughing; he had been ill – he felt worse than ever now – but he hadn’t been coughing. He couldn’t have tuberculosis.

…but he was dying. That he could be sure of. To bring up blood…and this much blood, was bad by any man’s knowledge and understanding. The poorest of the poor, who couldn’t sign their own name knew that bringing up blood was a sign of the end.

He tried to untangle himself from the bedsheets, attempting to avoid the pile of stringy, blood filled vomit. His arms trembled trying to bear his weight. He hadn’t felt this ill for three days, he had been sure he was getting better.

Jonathan mostly managed to avoid the pile of sick, clutching at a bedpost to give him strength, but the bedsheets ended up in half of it. Despite his disgust, Jonathan didn’t have the energy to care about the expensive sheets and what Dracula might think. He splashed some water on his face, flinching at the coldness.

Jonathan wanted to go back to bed, it was early morning and the winter sun was only just trying to climb around his curtains, but the nightmare had reaffirmed his resolve. He needed to find the woman, to help her and to leave this place.

Jonathan wondered about the entrance of the castle, he could hear the wolves outside howling. They never went far from the castle, it seemed. Would he ever be able to leave? The villagers wouldn’t drop him any closer than necessary and it was the Count’s driver who brought him to the door…

Bracing his hands against the dresser, he took a steadying breath, the stale taste of blood and vomit coating his tongue. He was doomed either way, but perhaps he could help _her_.

***

Jonathan awoke on the floor, the cessation of the ringing jarring him awake. He gasped wildly, heart surging with fear, and rolled onto his back. His eyes darted around the room.

He was in the main hall, there were no dead to be seen.

Jonathan could have cried with relief.

The creatures chasing him remained etched into the back of his eyelids as he blinked slowly, the smell of their corpses still lingering in his nose. It all felt a blur. The salient details of his memory sharp and jagged, even as the terror faded. Only the flashes of their bodies staggering under their own rotting muscles remained. That slow moment where that man unfolded himself from the box, bones and joints cracking…the grasping hands as they snatched at him… “ _Kill me, kill me!_ ” They had been demanding….

It was then he realised that the Count was seated behind him, and a new terror bloomed in his chest. Because now he remembered the Count in his grave, rising, rising, rising…

Jonathan thought Dracula might have been saying something, but all he could think about was that stone tomb, with fangs, eyes blood red.

And the dread of being caught between him and the dead.

But more terrifying, had been the desire to run to the Count, to hide behind his rising form. Of all the things in the world, why on earth had Jonathan thought that the Count would protect him?

Dracula walked into view, and Jonathan attempted to follow him with his eyes, but the room was spinning. The fire behind him was causing an unpleasant heat against his sickly skin, and making the room move in waves of heat.

The man ( _and God, he wasn’t a man, but what else could he call him?)_ looked down at Jonathan, “Thought we’d lost you for a minute there,” he remarked, glass of red wine held archly in his hand as he observed the sprawled-out form. He looked bored with Jonathan again.

Oddly, Jonathan wanted to ask him for help up, felt sure in that instant that the Count would give it to him. Instead, Jonathan held his tongue, pressing his fingers against his aching neck, wincing at the burning pain as he touched the abused flesh.

The Count set his glass down with a loud clink, walking over to Jonathan. He crouched down, watching Jonathan for a long moment, his eyes lingering on Jonathan’s hand pressed against the raised welt that was rapidly scarring on his throat with a peculiar, possessive look. “Come on, Johnny. On your feet now,” he finally said.

Jonathan removed his hand from the scar, unnerved by the Count’s dark look trailing the mark. Jonathan wondered if he could actually get to his feet; the silence had a ringing to it, and though he was flat on his back, he could feel the ground swaying nauseatingly underneath him. Dracula turned those cold eyes onto Jonathan’s for a second, an icy smile on his face as he reached forward to grab Jonathan and pull him to his feet like a ragdoll.

The sudden change in position made Jonathan’s head spin even more. He let out a weak moan, his head lolling forward. He let the Count support his weight, a small part of him confident that the Count would not let him fall, though it snarled at being manhandled so.

The Count was talking at Jonathan about something to do with writing some letters, but Jonathan couldn’t grasp the specifics, the man’s deep voice almost soothing even though Jonathan’s heart was pounding in fear. He grunted as he was almost thrown into the chair in which he normally took his meals.

The Count took Jonathan’s hand, helping him pick up a pen. “Come on, Johnny. Focus on me,” The Count demanded, closing Jonathan’s uncooperative fingers around the cool cylinder.

And Jonathan did for a moment, compelled to do so by an unknown force. He stared in shock, “You’re younger again,” he whispered.

This seemed to greatly amuse the Count, his cold fingers splayed against Jonathan’s cheeks, “I know, thank you. And I owe it all to you, your concern was most touching.” The cold digits felt great against Jonathan’s sweaty skin.

“You took too much,” Jonathan moaned, his head bowing towards the table. He didn’t know what he meant by that, or even where the words had come from, but he knew them to be true.

The Count smiled. “Oh no, I haven’t yet, Johnny. You will be quite fine.”

Jonathan blinked at Dracula, whose smile only widened at his astonishment, “Look, I have brought you some company for whilst you work,” he offered in an abrupt change of topic.

He held out a photo of a pretty woman for inspection, but Jonathan was enraptured by the Count’s nails, poised over the throat of the pleasant young woman. Dracula had released the photo, setting it on the table next to the papers, and was talking about something or other that Jonathan was struggling to grasp.

With a slow and unsteady hand, Jonathan reached out towards the Count. The man slowed down in what he was saying, the rumble that thrummed through Jonathan’s ears slowing down before tapering off as Jonathan grabbed his left hand, pulling it closer to his own face for inspection.

The nails were thick and white, longer than they ought to be and sharp. Jonathan studiously did not look at his own lack of nails. He trailed his fingers across the Count’s pressing on the thickened nails carefully. There was a lot of strength in them. Weapons in the flesh. Jonathan was enraptured.

The Count had paused in his speech, smiling down at Jonathan in bemusement, “Johnny?” He called out softly, and Jonathan startled sharply, coming back to himself and skittering further back into his chair. He gaped up at the Count in mortified horror. He had just been holding the Count’s hand needlessly. “Do you not want Mina here with you whilst you work?” Dracula asked, “Would you like me to stay instead?”

Jonathan hesitated for a long moment before he whispered, “Who’s Mina?”

The Count frowned at him, pushing his glass of undefined substance away so he could perch on the table. He was the picture of concern.

He briefly touched Jonathan’s cheek again, “You know Mina, don’t you? She’s your fiancée,” he prodded.

Jonathan felt a coldness run across his skin as he scoured his memory and came up with nothing. He should know her, he thought. He reached out and picked up the photograph the Count said was his. She was very pretty.

Unbidden, the thought of how long she had sat smiling for that picture came to him. She hadn’t wanted to look dour, even though sitting with such a wide smile for so long had hurt her cheeks. _Only for you, my love._ She had said.

But he still didn’t know who she was.

“My fiancée?” He echoed back to the Count, who made a low noise of encouragement.

“You need to write to her. We don’t want her to worry now, do we?”

The room lurched in front of Jonathan with the sudden clarity – _no, he did want her to worry. He was in danger here. He needed help!_ He took a strangled breath, hands trembling across the table-top, Mina’s photo over-balancing in his fumbling, hiding her from Jonathan’s view. _Oh God. Oh God!_ Jonathan started to panic, his breath coming in small, tight gasps. _Who was she? Did the Count tell the truth?!_

“Ah, ah. Johnny,” The Count called him back, and Jonathan’s breath steadied out, like his lungs had been taken out of his own control.

He blinked at the Count with watery eyes, “Wh-why can’t I remember?” he demanded pleadingly.

The Count grinned sharply and went to answer when there was a distressed snuffling noise by the doorway. Both the Count and Jonathan paused.

“Is-is that a baby?” Jonathan asked, attempting to stand. As he got to his feet with great effort, his eye caught a small wooden box shoved into the corner, hammer and nails waiting upon the top.

The exact kind of box that Jonathan had opened downstairs…

“No, no. No babies here, Johnny,” The Count assured him, placing two heavy hands on his shoulders to return Jonathan to his seat. Under the heavy presence of the Count, Jonathan sat pliantly, stunned. He knew what that box was for….who it was for. “Now, Johnny,” The Count snapped his fingers a couple of times in front of Jonathan’s face to get his attention again, “Good boy. Keep your attention on me. I need you to write three letters. Dated the 12th, 19th and the 29th. Do you remember what I told you to write?”

He didn’t, but Jonathan felt something in him tremble with the fear of displeasing the Count, the same presence that had been so sure the Count was going to save him from the dead earlier. He found himself nodding.

The Count gave him a hard look, one that said he didn’t believe him, but he tapped the paper in front of Jonathan with a long white nail. “Good. Get to it then.”

There was another distressed wail, and if it had not blatantly been the sound of a baby, Jonathan might have feared it had come from him.

“That’s a baby,” he gasped. “Oh God, that’s a baby!”

“No. It’s not,” The Count snapped, standing and walking to the other end of the table. He tugged gently on the ends of his waistcoat, as if gathering his composure before walking over to a wriggling bag.

Jonathan braced his weight on the table, standing again and staring in incredulous horror at the sight of the moving sack.

The Count by-passed the bag, however, and went to the box instead, tapping it with the side of his shoe. He picked up the hammer, letting the head swing in his hand. He gave Jonathan a stern look, “The 12th, 19th and the 29th, Johnathan.”

“The 29th,” Jonathan repeated dully.

“As good a day as any, Johnny.”

And as Jonathan stood on his coltish legs, eyes meeting Dracula’s, Jonathan understood what the letters were for…what they meant. The man gave him that bland smile again.

A deep, dark part of Jonathan, a part which had been growing steadily over the past two days wanted to snatch the hammer from Dracula and attack him with it.

This _monster_ had just told him the limit of his existence and expected Jonathan to be so polite, so enfeebled, so _English_ that he would write the letters and do nothing to stop him.

And Jonathan found his lip curling, baring his teeth to the Count in something so animal, Jonathan couldn’t explain where the urge came from.

It didn’t have the intended effect.

The Count suddenly seemed to see him, his eyes focusing on Jonathan; interest reignited. He set the hammer down, watching Jonathan raptly, a look of fascination on his face.

Jonathan’s own mood fell, the dark pressure inside releasing. The man felt afraid, the thing inside felt pleased it had the Count’s true attention.

They stood for a long moment, watching each other. The Count taking in every inch of Jonathan’s face like he had never seen him before, and Jonathan slowing coming down from a surge emotion that he couldn’t explain.

His own feelings frightened him. He was terrified of the Count again, having been confronted with Dracula’s true nature. But there was a new part of him that felt differently. Wanted the Count’s attention.

And he had it now. The Count had taken a step towards him, gaging Jonathan’s reaction to him coming nearer.

Jonathan’s knees locked, and his palms were slick against the fine wooden table.

The crying of the baby reaching a new pitch distracted them both again. Jonathan winced at the piercing cry, and the Count looked irritated, turning his back to Jonathan with a tired huff. He went to the sack, picking it up and heading towards the stairs.

“Wait!” Jonathan barked, weakly, “The baby!” he cried out, attempting to hobble around the table. The room swayed and the dimly lit room became a blur as he did. He hit the flagstones with a loud slap of meat before he knew he was falling.

“There is no baby, Jonathan.” It was said firmly this time, and something curdled in Jonathan. He didn’t protest again as the Count continued up the stairs, even though something broke in him to hear those cries and do nothing about it. But what could he do, when he couldn’t even get up off the floor?

***

“Stop! Stop! Please!” Jonathan pleaded with the woman, jumping backwards to get away from her and her massive fangs.

Hissing, she followed, “I’m hungry,” she said again.

Jonathan slammed into the glass bauble, his weak back curving around the ball. He slid around it, using his limp body weight to move faster. His numb hands obscenely squeaked against it as he tried to put some distance between them.

The crucifix hung uselessly against his chest, so cold that it stung his skin, his weak heart struggling to keep up with his fear.

The woman prowled closer, only the glass with the dead infant in it separating them. Jonathan wondered if she was playing with him, but he got the impression that she was far too hungry for that.

“Stop,” he said again, moving back again. Hysteria began to build in his throat, “For God’s sake!” he cried, his shoulder catching on the side of her box. “ _Stop!”_

She froze, and even Jonathan lurched in shock.

That wasn’t English.

It was Romanian. Accented Romanian, but Romanian.

He didn’t know how he knew it.

The Count had spoken English the whole time during his stay, even the villagers and other inhabitants upon hearing his English accent used what little vocabulary they had to converse with him in his own language. Even the demand for help was scored into the glass in English…

No one had made any attempt at speaking in Romanian, nor teaching him a few words. He didn’t know what the word ‘stop’ was.

Even though Jonathan had heard himself say it, and he knew what he had said…he didn’t know how he had done it, nor how he knew it.

The creature in front of him didn’t know what English was, despite her confessing that knowledge in _English._

It was an odd sensation to experience, and that made Jonathan’s cold body feel even colder.

Jonathan watched as the woman visibly wrestled control over her features, curling her lips to hide her teeth and swallowing several times, furious dark eyes skewering Jonathan. “ _So, you_ are _his friend now,”_ she finally bit out in Romanian, and Jonathan noted with terror induced sharpness, that she too looked a little afraid.

Jonathan couldn’t tell if she was angry at him, or for the fact that she wouldn’t or couldn’t feed on him. For her intentions were evident, her teeth straight and human, and she was retreating back into her box sulkily.

She skulked at the opening on the top, giving Jonathan a hard look as she swung her legs into the box.

Jonathan clutched his chest with his shaking hands, gasping for breath. It was getting very hard to breathe now.

Evidently, there was some noise outside the room because the woman suddenly looked towards the door with a fearful glance. She slid inside quickly, pulling the lid with her as she went. Just before she fully disappeared, she turned to Jonathan, once again the pleading little prisoner, “Tell him, I’m hungry.”

With that the lid shut.

It took Jonathan a long moment (longer than it should have ever taken him, if he had been well) to realise what would have caused her to be so scared and panicked.

 _Who_ would have caused her to be so panicked, felt more apt.

Jonathan turned around to see the Count standing in the doorway, smiling at him pleasantly. “Johnny, you shouldn’t be in here,” he said with all the joviality of an indulgent school teacher finding a misbehaving young child.

However, it sent a thrill of dread down Jonathan’s spine as though he had been caught by the headmaster.

Jonathan found himself panicking, _did the Count want an answer to his admonishing statement?_ As much as Jonathan feared for his life, another part was quailing at what Dracula must be thinking about him.

Jonathan swallowed loudly, the wet sound making him cringe. The Count’s smile seemed to deepen at the noise, the lines around his eyes becoming more pronounced as he walked into the room.

His hands were clasped behind his back, and he looked down at the three boxes as a surveyor might have looked at Carfax Abbey.

Jonathan couldn’t bring himself to speak, he felt sick with the fear.

This was the end. He knew it.

Something in Jonathan told him to throw himself to his knees and beg for the Count’s forgiveness. It was so _hungry_. It understood the woman in the box very well.

Jonathan licked his lips as the Count came down the steps, further into the room, and yet still somehow blocking the door.

He gave Johnathan what one might have called a calming smile, toothless and mild. He didn’t say anything.

The Count ran his hand gently over one of the boxes, whispering to it somewhat coyly, _“Our Englishman has gotten himself into a little bit of trouble, hasn’t he?”_

“P-pardon?” Jonathan asked.

“Hm?” the Count turned to him, a pleasant and distracted look on his face, “Oh, nothing to worry about, Johnny. Just a little Romanian saying.” The corners of his eyes creased.

Jonathan, bedraggled though he was, smiled brittlely. Did the Count know that Jonathan knew what he had said? The man’s dark eyes scoured Jonathans with an eager hunger that Jonathan hadn’t seen before. Of course, he knew.

“What is this place?” Jonathan asked, “Who are these…people?”

“My brides?” The Count smiled at him, “Why this is their room, of course.”

“Brides?” Jonathan echoed.

“Brides. Children. Experiments.” The Count paused, “I’m not sure what to call them. I am trying to reproduce, you see? Which is hard to do when there is only one of you. I am sure you can appreciate my predicament.”

Something in Jonathan grumbled at the thought of being locked away. Jonathan himself felt a wave of disgust towards the Count for keeping people like this.

At the lack of his response, the Count’s face briefly turned into bemused dismissal, as if Jonathan was being unreasonable and particularly thick. “Well, you have made yourself a bit a nuisance, haven’t you? I wasn’t expecting you to find this place.” He took a step forward, unfastening his cloak and tossing it on top of the nearest box. “I was hoping we may have another ten days or so together, but we cannot return to the original way of things now, can we?”

Jonathan found his vision incredibly blurry, the minute details of the room indistinguishable, but the Count seemed crystal clear. His face sharp and defined to Jonathan’s failing eyes. It was only that which allowed Jonathan to perceive those black eyes becoming darker, red seeping into the whites of his eyes and then his teeth becoming sharp.

Jonathan slammed into the wooden crate behind him as the Count came forward with his fangs bared.

He might have screamed. He wasn’t sure. He came to being carried up the stairs, held tightly in the Count’s arms. He groaned weakly, the strain in his chest throbbing with ache and effort.

“Oh, Johnny, you’re just about done, aren’t you?” The Count crooned down to him. “I am glad you woke so quickly though, just in time for one more experiment. I was almost worried I had misjudged you there.”

Jonathan groaned again in response, something baneful giving it a bit of a sibilant edge. The Count smiled coyly at the sound.

As they reached the top of the castle - something Jonathan had never been able to find - and Dracula opened the door, a blast of cold January air made Jonathan shiver. _Oh God, he’s going to throw me off the top!_ Jonathan thought.

But the count merely set him down on the ground, rolling him out into the sun. Jonathan whined at the sensation, for although it wasn’t burning him, it was unpleasantly hot and uncomfortable to his skin. He pressed his left cheek into the ground to try and hide from it a little.

He squinted blearily at the pools of black fabric being laid out next to him in the shadows. Upon the cloak, Dracula settled himself, watching Jonathan’s reaction to the sun with a clinical engagement. “How fascinating,” he murmured, and Jonathan glowered up at him with blurred, streaming eyes.

“I want you to do something for me, Johnny. As our time is drawing to a close,” He settled more firmly on his elbow, “I haven’t seen her in four hundred years. Describe her to me…”

Jonathan’s first muddled thought was _who?_ But then, the answer came to him, because he could feel it burning him.

If it was burning him, then what would it do to the monster in front of him?

Jonathan glanced towards the mountain peaks, hesitantly. He was keen to see the sun, desperate in the way a dying man would be. He might not see it ever again, but he was also afraid. He was in a lot of pain with his back to it, like he was too close to the fire after coming in from the cold. What would happen when he looked at it?

The moment his eye caught the red orb in the sky, it like a hot knife pressed against his flesh. His vision went white and he shrieked at the agony, moving his head away so sharp and fast he cracked his cheek against the concrete.

Jonathan tried to shuffle away from the burning light and its scoring fingers over his abused skin. He was so weak, and the burning felt like it would never stop, but suddenly there was some relief. He had crawled into the shade, he thought, though his eyes were still clamped shut.

He was touching the Count’s cloak, and the smooth material was making him struggle with his purchase on the ground. But then there was a cool hand on his back, pulling him further into the dark, cradling him away from the sun’s cruelty.

Jonathan’s whole body juddered in relief, slumping at the expended energy. There was a bar of iron around his back, but it felt safe, and that shifting presence that had been growing inside him, was contented to have it there.

“Oh, dear me,” The Count sighed, sounding pitying. He smoothed his hand down Jonathan’s back. “That wasn’t very pleasant, was it?” He chuckled, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Jonathan Harker, as an Englishman, found it uncomfortable to be so at ease with his cheek pressed against this monster’s chest, the buttons of his waistcoat pressing into Jonathan’s cramped hands. Whatever had been done to him, whatever was _inside him,_ was immeasurably pleased.

“How fascinating—” The Count murmured gently, stroking back Jonathan’s hair and turning his lax body around to look up at him. “—I had begun to wonder if feeding you some of my blood had done anything at all, until last night.”

“P-pardon?” Jonathan croaked, “Fee—” he paused to take heaving breath, “--feeding me your what?”

The Count frowned scolding, running his hand through Jonathan’s hair to gentle the rebuke, “Blood.” He cupped Jonathan’s cheek, turning his face further into his chest, “Come on now, Johnny, I know you mortals struggle to process thoughts when you’re so depleted, but even you must know what I am by this point.”

Jonathan wriggled uncomfortably, his lip curling in that way it had the previous night.

“Ahh.” The Count smiled. “That. That there, Johnny.” The Count ran his finger over the lip, unfazed by the bared teeth. “That’s me.” His thumb pressed against Jonathan’s teeth, the loose bones started to bend inwards under the unyielding strength that was the Count, and Jonathan felt a snarling growl broil in his chest.

“Johnny,” The Count laughed at him, releasing the pressure, “Enough of that now.”

The rumbling in Jonathan’s throat lowered but continued, Jonathan trembling against the Count.

“You’re going to be a lively one, aren’t you?” Dracula continued his petting, the grumbling emerging from Jonathan beyond the younger man’s control. “ _Enough,”_ The Count said a little more firmly. The growling ceased, the anger cowed within Jonathan’s chest.

Dracula cradled one of Jonathan’s hands up for his inspection, admiring the growing nails with the fondness of a proud parent. “And these. We’re making a right beast of you, aren’t we?” He looked at the thickened white, claw-like nail, eyeing where it was tearing the deadened flesh as it grew. “I’ve never tried it this way before.”

He looked down at Jonathan and were it anyone else Jonathan might have labelled it enamoured. But the Count had dead eyes.

Jonathan squirmed.

“Anyone can make the un-dead, Johnny. It is very easy. They are mindless beasts. But to make a vampire? Oh, Johnny. That’s a special bond,” The Count explained, as he pulled Jonathan into a seated position beside him. “You never forget your first vampire. Mine was a feral thing. Climbed the walls. Destroyed some of my best tapestries. But I’ve never forgotten her. Nor the way she smelt when she caught aflame.”

Jonathan said nothing. He could smell his own blood on the Count’s breath, and he _ached_. Something within him was so hungry.

“I won’t forget you either, my first living child in hundreds of years,” Dracula said, adjusting Jonathan’s limbs to make him more comfortable, so they sat side by side on the thick cloak. “I think you would have made a fine Bride. Maybe you still will. The mortal in you has already had a chance to meet the devil, you may be able to coexist with it, like the best of our kind do.”

“You’re the only one of your kind,” Jonathan hissed, dribbling with the effort. The darkening sky was spinning. He shut his eyes, letting his head rest on the Count’s shoulder.

“Indeed, I am the only vampire like this, Johnny.”

Jonathan sighed into the man’s waistcoat. Such arrogance. _Truly one of the upper-class, he will fit in well in England_ , he thought with detachment. The Count was stroking his hair with the gentlest of touches. “Do you know what it’s like to be able to taste yourself in someone else? It’s a unique sensation.”

Jonathan was reminded of the Count’s bloody breath, each word pushing more of it towards him. To Jonathan’s disgust, he could taste his own blood in the air, the imprints of terror oddly tantalising on the tongue. The Count drank in his reaction, “It is interesting, isn’t it?” he asked, their foreheads almost touching.

Jonathan swallowed wetly, a hunger grumbling within him. His stomach churned loudly. The Count looked delighted, his hand briefly reaching out to touch Jonathan’s wasted stomach, to feel the gurgling.

“I don’t know what to do with you, lovely,” The Count confessed, almost mournfully. “I never expected to see such results. I would like to keep you, keep feeding you to see what would happen. But thanks to your work, I am ready to leave for England.” He drew Jonathan closer, letting the dying man rest his forehead against his clavicle. His cold hand settled in Jonathan’s hair, gently cradling Jonathan’s cranium. “I wonder if you’ll become like the others. I don’t have a box for you.” Jonathan found himself bridling at the words; one-part fury, and two-parts fear. He didn’t want to be put in the box. “Shh, shh. Settle. Settle,” Dracula soothed. “You’ve been so fascinating. Flesh of my flesh; blood of my blood.”

What could Jonathan say to that? _Was_ there anything to say?

He wanted to beg for his life, but what life would it be with this monster’s blood running through him? What could he do? He felt the last draining more soundly than the others, his body unable to make blood as the rate it was being taken.

There was no more blood to be had from him. He wanted to sleep. Desperately.

“ _Speak to me, Johnny,”_ Dracula crooned, nails scratching at that final oozing bite. Jonathan twitched his head irritably at the sensation, trying to get away from it and inadvertently pressing his neck into the flat of the Count’s palm. “ _Johnny, I know you understand me.”_

“Enough, please,” Jonathan begged, firmly in English. He felt a guilty shame in his stolen languages; he wouldn’t speak them.

 _“Oh, why is it the English make everyone talk their own tongue?”_ Dracula eyed his own bloody fingers, debating whether or not to taste the answer, _“Are they too embarrassed to speak with an accent? Too proud to make mistakes in front of others in their learning? You’ve been given a gift of all the languages in the world, Johnny, and you waste it.”_

Jonathan growled, almost tempted to lunge at the Count, even knowing it was futile. Dracula seemed to read his intention, the hand soothing at his neck became a restrictive collar, the thumb pressing into the weak, fluttering pulse with endless cruelty.

Jonathan prayed that it would end soon. Selfish, he knew, but even if it meant his body continued to function and move, but not with this human consciousness. He couldn’t live as both man and monster. He couldn’t live with this _creature_ inside him.

He expects that human light, his soul, that piece of him that is so intrinsically Jonathan Harker to be put out like a light, his consciousness to go with it.

He expects it to end with that almighty _crack_ (and his twitching, jerking limbs _and this shouldn’t hurt so much_ ) as his head is snapped around so far, that he glimpses the beautiful sun for the last time, before he collapses to the ground.

It doesn’t.


End file.
